


Piece by piece

by minisculecosmos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Drabble, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, Season/Series 04, Shenanigans, deanmon, gen - Freeform, had this idea I had to write sorry it's plotless, mostly fluffy I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minisculecosmos/pseuds/minisculecosmos
Summary: After being raised from perdition, Dean doesn't feel quite whole.After all, some ointment via angelic grace and a cosmic bandaid doesn't heal decades of burns.Or, half demon dean at some point in season 4. Sorry if anything is out of the canon timeline, I had no reference, just memory and angsty fingers.
Kudos: 14





	Piece by piece

**Author's Note:**

> Ya girl is back, after an eternity of 2020 terribleness.
> 
> Enjoy this piece of idek fic, I guess I tried. It's short, might as well read it.  
> Thanks for being here y'all, and I promise I haven't abandoned anything yet XD

Being back on Earth was great.  
Then again, anything would be preferable to hell. 

Castiel even went the full extra mile when bringing him back, fixing his body completely, leaving him unmarred save a handprint burned onto his shoulder, the mark of the righteous man.

That said, ten years of torture left marks no one could erase.

At that point, most people knew that demons were once people who had been sentenced to perdition and eternal fire for their lifetimes or in exchange for a bounty, like in Dean’s case. No one knew how long it took for one to become a demon, whether one had to choose to get off the rack at the price of torturing others, or if how long a soul withstood the constant flaying, burning, and bleeding changed the time before their soul was truly blackened, or if their life and purpose of the deal made any change. He doubted it.

Dean had never seen John in all of his forty years down there, had never been tasked with torturing his soul.

Worse, Dean couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t have done so if given the option.

Point is, that decision to sacrifice others to save yourself marks the home stretch to becoming a demon.   
And Dean had been a decade down the line.

Meaning, a body could be whole once more but the soul is permanent, and if Dean’s was a little burnt around the edges- well, he could hide it well enough.

His behavior had not changed much, after returning to Earth. He still enjoyed the same things, and in many ways it felt like he had never left.

But 40 years of memories undoubtedly change a person- and their soul.   
He heard their screams at night, the victims who he knew would one day give up, and while he carved, learning how to cut so precisely, Dean prayed they would hang on.  
Of course, hope in hell is pointless, and all thoughts of humanity slowly leaked out of Dean; his soul, darkening.  
He remembered being pulled out, vaguely. The screams of the demons around him, the condemned and tortured blasted away by a being too pure and holy for that terrible place. Knowing now it was an angel, Castiel, made Dean feel torn in ways he couldn’t really put into words.   
Still, he was recovering, and no longer spent his eternity causing pain, which had always been one of Dean’s biggest fears.  
But enough angst.

“Dean!”  
“What?” he yelled back, standing up from his position in front of a laptop and a nice bottle of beer on the table.  
“Can you finish this trap for me?”  
Dean lumbered over, yawning. “Yeah, sure.”  
Once he reached the sitting room, Sam smiled at him and threw the can of paint. “Thanks.”  
Dean nodded and got to work, carefully marking the symbols and the intercrossed lines of the star.   
When he was finished, Dean stood back, checking the trap over, before going to move the carpet to cover the trap from view.   
Still standing in the center of the pentagram, Dean reached up to do the ceiling as well, using the stool Sam had no doubt gotten out for him to reach. Once done, he threw the paint to the couch and stepped off the stool.  
Or, he tried to step off the stool.  
More accurately, he stepped off the stool and slipped, landing abruptly on the carpet, staring up at the trap above him.   
Groaning, Dean tried to get up, only to find his legs stuck in the pentagram.  
His eyebrows furrowed, not saying anything yet, unsure if he was just hurt or if he had done something wrong. He stood up, still inside the trap, and walked out.  
And proceeded to fall over himself once more.   
Are you kidding me? Dena thought angrily, confused why this trap seemed to refuse to let go of him.  
“Dean? Are you good?”  
Pushing himself back up, stretching out his arms, he responded albeit grumpily, “Fine!”.  
Shoulders slumping, Dean tried to figure a way out of his predicament. He had a knife in his pocket, but couldn’t be sure it would get him out.  
Crouching down, Dean tied to chisel away the now-dry paint, to no avail. Sighing he spun around, really, really hoping Sam wouldn't walk it at any second.   
But then he had an idea.  
He narrowed his eyes, stepped towards the edge, and waved his arm around.  
Aha! It worked.  
So it seemed that the trap wanted to contain some of Dean, but not all. How ironic, Dean thought.  
He looked around, finding a small stack of some heavier tomes on the couch. Now to get them.  
Dean leaned over as far as he could, feet still stuck in the trap, trying to get the books. They were too far.  
He took off his jacket, and used it to try to knock the books off the couch  
How ridiculous I must look, he realized, swinging a flannel at some books. He chuckled despite himself.  
Thankfully, the books budged enough that they toppled over, scattering across the floor closer to Dean’s reach. Finally.   
Still leaning out of the circle, Dean threw the book back toward himself, hoping the corner would chip away at the paint.

He really, really, hoped Sam wasn’t nearby to see this.   
He would never be forgiven for throwing the books.

Eventually, the paint started to wear away, and Dean could step out.  
Relieved beyond belief but also incredibly worried about what this meant for him in the future, Dean hurriedly put the books back on the couch and replaced his flannel.   
Sam came around the corner, looking confused. “What happened with all the thumping?”  
“Oh,” Dean said, swallowing and putting on his classic “all’s good!” smile. “I tripped.”  
Sam scoffed. “Really?”   
“Yep.”   
Sam stared, and Dean tried to look more cheerful.  
“...Whatever, man.” Sam turned away, waving his arm at Dean like he was actually insane.   
Phew.

The next time it happened, Sam and Dean were lining the windows of an apartment with salt, hoping to keep the spirit outside until they could figure out how to beat the already-cremated ghost. Eventually, the ghost banged the door open, thankfully without breaking the line. Dean clutched the silver knife, gun in the other hand, out of bullets. Sam stood behind him, glancing back at the terrified lady whose apartment had been out to get her for weeks now. “Don’t worry,” he said, putting a hand out reassuringly. “We’ll take care of it.” The girl slowly nodded back, clutching a knife she hastily stole from the kitchen. Dean faced the ghost, slowly stepping forward, knife poised to slash. The safe area was small, and due to running out of salt, the three of them were stuck in a small corner of the studio style apartment. Dean analyzed the situation, realizing he would have to step out of the square in order to attack the ghost without it possibly hurting Sam or the lady.   
Creeping forward, he carefully stepped out of the circle.

Or tried to.

Instead, he slipped and nearly fell to the floor unattractively, saved only by his foot keeping him upright for once.  
By stepping right on the salt line, breaking it. 

Dean looked up from the floor sharply, hurrying backward as the ghost sped toward them. Dean threw the knife, launching it right through the specter and right into the closest piece of furniture. Pretty sure that was mahogany, too. Dean grimaced, but straightened up to keep searching for the amulet while the ghost was temporarily discorporated. 

“Dean?”  
Oh, no.  
“What… what happened- back there?”  
“I slipped on the salt, what do you think?”  
Sam just gave him his other signature look of I can tell when you’re lying and stared at him. Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.  
“Listen, I’ll-I’ll explain later, okay?”  
“I’ll hold you to that,” his brother replied.  
Dean sighed, saved for another day.

Back at the motel room, Dean collapsed face first onto the rotten mattress that was so familiar whilst being so gross.  
“So,” Sam said carefully. “What really happened earlier?”  
Dean wished he could just be left alone to sleep for just two minutes-  
“I…. something’s wrong.”  
“And? With what? Are you hurt?”  
“Not in the way you think.”  
Sam sat down on the opposite bed, hands folded politely, listening intently.   
“I told you, what happened, you know, down there.”  
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Does this have something to do-”  
“Yeah. Uh…”  
Dean hated emotions, sometimes. Cas had it easy like that.  
“I’m here, as I was. But remembering what happened….. It was a lot of time, Sammy. And I dunno how long it takes for souls to be taken, burnt, or whatever, but I get the feeling…...I think I wasn’t a;; that far off.”  
Sam looked very concerned by that point. “So you think you’re, what, part demon or something?”  
“Or something.”  
Sam sighed, biting his lip thoughtfully, “Why now? How do you know?”  
“Certain things, okay? I couldn’t cross the salt line earlier, but I broke it somehow. I couldn’t get out of the trap the other week, had to use some books to free myself.”  
“Books???”  
“Yeah. They’re fine, don’t worry, hardly scratched-”  
Sam looked doubtful.  
“But this kind of thing isn’t too uncommon.”  
Sam thought in silence, then looked very disturbed. “You don’t… have the eyes, do you?”  
“What? No!”  
“Are you sure?”  
And now Dean was scared, because he wasn’t sure.  
He said nothing. 

Sam pushed himself off the bed, walked across the room, and stared back at Dean.  
“You know it doesn’t….. change anything, right? You’re not a demon.”  
“Maybe not physically.”  
Sam gave his best encouraging half-smile.  
Dean didn’t react, but inside, the shattered edges filled themselves in just a bit more.


End file.
